Spirited (11 page)

We must hurry! And be out of here!

Then it was done; she cut through the final shreds of rope and they dangled from her father’s wrists. He grimaced but made no sound as he rubbed his hands for circulation. Then he put his finger to
his lips just as Major Whyte had done. For a moment, recalling the man, Isabella was strangled with grief and fear, her mind skimming over all the horrors she had seen in the last day and night.

Then her father grabbed up the tomahawk and arced it over his head, ready to smash it down on the head of the sleeping Indian.

It was the wise thing to do; if their guard awoke and found them missing, he would sound the alarm and they would be captured, and probably punished. Maybe even burned.

But a voice inside Isabella’s head whispered, Do
not harm him.

She shook her head violently, imploring her father with her eyes. He frowned at her, the tomahawk held high over his head.

This time she reached her arms forward to stay his hand, extending them protectively above the Indian’s head. Her father huffed angrily; he would not be stopped She shook her head again and tapped her temple, mouthing,
“Please.”

He signaled that he didn’t understand, but when she would not relent, he lowered the tomahawk and wiped his forehead, clearly beyond frustrated with her. He stared at her as if she were mad. She knew she was asking the impossible, but she did so anyway.

Resolutely, she mouthed,
“No.”

He glanced at the entrance flap, then at the tomahawk, as if deciding what to do next. Perhaps he was
afraid she would make so much noise with her protests that either the brave would rouse or someone would come.

She gave her head a shake.

She prayed that the look he gave her in return would someday not hurt so much. Then he slowly got to his feet and tiptoed to the rear of the hut. Isabella followed suit.

He carefully lowered himself onto the earthen floor and grabbed a bit of matting stretched perpendicular with the floor. As he gazed meaningfully first at it, and then at her, he pulled on it.

The matting crumbled in his hand. It was rotted clean through.

So that was what he had been trying to tell her! Filled with hope, she wrapped her hands around the next limb, and it disintegrated into moist chunks that stuck to her fingers.

She cleared off another branch, and another, while her father moved the bits away from the crawl space they were making. He glanced often in the direction of the brave. He still held the tomahawk, and Isabella could tell that he still wished to use it on the man.

When she had made a space that would accommodate him, she tugged at his sleeve. They smiled grimly at each other. This was the moment of truth. He got down on his knees and held himself up with one hand and he peered out of the space. They both sat back on their heels and exchanged silent prayers. Her only parent; his only child.

Then he pointed at her. He was telling her to go first. When she began to refuse, he pointed at the brave. She understood: Her refusal to let him kill their guard was the reason he wanted her to get out ahead of him. And she also understood that he would not bend, as she had not.

She took a deep breath. She was afraid, but she must do this.

She pointed to herself again, and then to the space, thinking,
It would be nice if we could speak to each other with our hands, as the savages do.
And then she had the fleeting thought,
Perhaps they are not so uncivilized after all, if they can manage such a thing.

Her father looked down at the tomahawk and the knife, as if deciding between the two. Then he handed her the knife. His eyes welled with tears, and she leaned forward and brushed her lips with his. With his good arm, he pulled her against his chest and held her tightly, whispering, “God bless you, Isabella.”

The brave snorted and smacked his lips. They jerked apart and glanced at him, Isabella’s grip tightening around the knife. He slept on.

Quickly, Isabella put the knife between her teeth, as she had done before, turned over on her back, and began to slide through the hole. It was more than sufficient for her; they had sized it to fit her father, and he was a robust man.

Her head poked free and she gazed up at stars and treetops. She looked left and right, and saw no one.

She scrambled out, and knelt to help her father. Despite his injury, he was able to slither out like a snake.

Now they were out of the hut; it seemed another miracle that no one else was about. They said nothing, but crept through the village as silently as they knew how. They passed a hut shaped as theirs had been; then another, much longer and taller.

The trees grew denser. They were entering the woods, pitch black with the night. She wondered what had become of their horses, and wished desperately that they could find one and ride off so fast that no one could follow.

But that was not to be. And although she was exhausted, she did her best to match her father’s pace as he gripped her by the upper arm and hurried her along. She had no idea how she managed it; her feet were nearly floating above the ground, she was so light-headed and faint.

“If we are separated, keep going,” he whispered to her. “Under no circumstances are you to look for me or to double back.” He pointed at the sky. “See that bright star? Look for it. Follow it. Find the path where we were attacked and follow it. If Indians come, hide. If soldiers come, look for their officers and present yourself to them.”

“Yes, Papa,” she murmured anxiously. She hefted the knife in her left hand. She cleared her throat and said, “In this case, Papa, might it not be … permissible … for a young Christian woman to take her own life, rather than fell into the hands of savages?”

Her father faltered as he walked. “Oh, my dear girl,” he moaned. “I should have left you in Albany. I curse myself for my selfishness. Cora said I should have left you.”

“No, Papa,” she said softly. “For in that case, you would surely be dead by now.”

She wasn’t certain if he heard her. They stumbled on, holding on to one another.

And then she heard the distant yipping of a wolf. She scanned the dark woods, unable to see anything.

Then she realized that it was coming from behind them. It had to be the tame wolf she had seen in the village.

“We’ve been discovered!” her father whispered.

His grip on her tightened as he broke into a run. The trees rushed up; a branch smacked her in the face. Then another.

Then her father’s grip broke loose, and she was running forward madly in the darkness, flailing for him.

“Papa? Papa?” she whispered fiercely.

The wolf’s yip was growing louder, and louder still. She ran left, right, the dense growth catching her clothes and tossing her about, almost as if the trees themselves were trying to catch her. Then the ground abruptly dipped, and she was unprepared; she stumbled forward, unable to see where she was going.

An agonizing stab of heat shot through her left thigh. The pain exploded throughout her body, all of a piece. She fell forward, smacking her head on a tree trunk. She had run directly into a broken branch that
had pierced her leg. Her shaking hand found it, sticking straight out of her thigh; blood was gushing freely around it, coating both her hands.

“No,” she managed, and then the pain and the shock were too great.

As she fell backward, the branch ripped a few inches upward, enlarging the wound. She barely felt it; she was sinking into a dead faint.

The wolf howled eagerly, and the dogs bayed with bloodthirsty joy.

They will find me. And if I am not dead by then, they will surely kill me.

The barking dogs called Wusamequin. He jerked up from his damp bed of grass and hastily got to his feet. Senses sharp, he cocked his head and listened. Afraid-of-Everything was with the pack. Something was on the run.

Not far from where he stood, something rustled in a patch of wild blackberry bushes. He pulled out his knife and darted toward it. As he lunged forward into the growth, the moon gleamed over his shoulder and bathed the still form of Mahwah, lying on her side.

He dropped to his knee and touched her shoulder. She did not move. Then he trailed his hand from her arm down her side to her thigh. Blood was gushing from a deep wound in her leg. Alarmed, he put his hand over it, pressing down hard; but it was a useless gesture. The blood was pooling around her body as if she were lying in a stream.

With his knife he slit open one of his leggings, creating a long strip of leather. He slammed it down over the wound and quickly tied it around her leg. Then he reached into his medicine bag and brought out his medicine bundle, which he pressed against her wound.

“Oh, Great Spirit
, Pachtamawas,
let her soul stay among us for a time,”
he chanted.

The wolf and the dogs bounded up, Afraid-of-Everything delighting in the discovery that his master was there. He nosed Wusamequin for a treat, but the shaman ignored him. Afraid-of-Everything whined and sat back on his haunches, cocking his head.

Wusamequin slid his hands beneath Mahwah and lifted her in his arms. He wondered where her father was. Dead, caught trying to escape?

We should have realized that this one could not be held down
, he thought, surveying her slack features.
That she is a warrior among her people, in her own way.
And yet so delicate, almost fawnlike. She reminded him of his dead wife, who had also been fragile, but stronger than a birch tree.

He was sorry to take her back to the village, but he had no other choice. Her wound was grievous. If he was to save her life, he had to get to his more elaborate medicines as quickly as possible. As it was, she had already lost so much blood that he wasn’t certain he could bring her back from her path to the Land Beyond.

He was surprised by how much that bothered him.

By the time he reached the village, most of the People were up and out of their wigwams. Oneko greeted him, frowning down at the woman. Sasious stood beside him, scarlet with fury.

“One accounted for,” the sachem said angrily. “But not the prize.”

Sasious scowled at Mahwah and hissed, “I’d like to scalp her right now.” He grunted. “By the looks of all that blood, she’ll be dead soon anyway.”

“We cannot let her die,” Wusamequin said quickly.

“We should have killed them when we had the chance,” Sasious countered.

Oneko raised a hand. “Wusamequin speaks rightly. It appears that the father has escaped.”

Sasious said, “The braves will find him and hunt him down. He won’t see another sunrise.”

“I hope that you’re right, my son,” Oneko told him. “But until we do, we must keep this one alive. The only weapon we have against him is his daughter, as our living hostage. As long as we have her, he may fear to make war upon us.” He nodded at the medicine man. “Do all you can for her.”

The sachem turned and faced the People. “We must move,” he announced. “Until dawn we will prepare. And then we must go. If he escapes, the Yangee officer will return with soldiers. Wusamequin will ask the spirits where we should go. It will be a new place, one the Yangees have never heard about from us.”

In the moonlight, alarm and worry creased the faces of the People. He surveyed the throng facing
him; most of the braves had already left. He assumed they were scouring the forest for Stevens.

“She’s more valuable than ever,” Wusamequin said. “I’ll take her to your wigwam, Oneko.” Her protection would be greatest there. No one would dare harm a possession of the tribal leader.

“No.” Wabun-Anung, Oneko’s wife, stepped forward. She glowered first at Mahwah, and then at him. “I will not have that pale skin witch in my home. She bewitched Wematin and made him fall asleep.” She sniffed. “Only the medicine man should be expected to deal with such a person.”

Wusamequin hesitated, sensing that he stood on swampy ground. He doubted she had bewitched Wematin, but it would help the young warrior save face to say she had. He would not add to the young man’s humiliation.

“It was either the white skin woman, or someone else,” Sasious declared. “Perhaps someone whose heart was too weak to burn her.”

Wusamequin held his council, but inwardly, he seethed at the accusation. He didn’t have time to wage war with Sasious. But he would not forget this slight.

He raised his chin and said, “If Wabun-Anung is unhappy with the hostage in her wigwam, then I’ll take her to mine.”

“Yes, take ’Mahwah,’” Odina hissed angrily. Her face was taut with hurt, and Wusamequin was sorry.

He looked straight at her and said, “Oneko has declared that she must live. If I’m to fulfill his
request, I must care for her immediately.”

“Yes.
Go,” Oneko urged him. Then he swept his arm toward Sasious and Odina and added, “There are words between many of the words that have been spoken here. We’ll discuss those later.”

Wusamequin moved through the crowd, heading for his wigwam. There were hostile mutterings; he ignored them. His heart was pounding and sweat beaded his brow.

I
must save her
, he thought.
She is very valuable.

The spirits of the wind whispered, “To
whom, Wusamequin? She is valuable to whom?”

And joining the airy words, Great Bear growled gently inside his heart, as if to say,
Keep walking your path, my human nephew. Your feet are finding their way.

Chapter Nine